


Drowning

by Artifex_Verbum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, Drowning, Dubious Consent, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Rescue, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:08:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26099944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artifex_Verbum/pseuds/Artifex_Verbum
Summary: Malcolm puts his life in Dr. Whitly's hands and promptly loses it...temporarily.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Martin Whitly
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Drowning

Malcolm stared up at the distorted face of his attacker, obscured by the water that was pushing up his nose and down his throat. His lungs ached and his eyes burned, but whenever he tried to claw his way out of the tub, his fingers only skidded along the porcelain in a stuttered aborted attempt at traction. He was running out of time.

Beneath the liquid surface he could hear his own muffled efforts...the splash of his feet kicking furiously but landing nowhere. His efforts to surface were futile and dark shadows gathered at the corner of his vision - waiting - counting the seconds - watching the clock as his time ran out.

The hand at his neck was strong, the grip crushing, with fingers digging mercilessly into the delicate flesh of his throat. He could feel his own pulse echoing loudly, each thrum an ever weakening knock at the hand that held him captive. 

The pain in his chest intensified as the last remnants of air withered away. His pulse began to slow and darkness opened it’s maw for him, promising to swallow him down with ease if he would just give in. 

That would not be an easy thing to do.

“Do you trust me?” 

The last words to drift towards his ears now reverberated loudly in his head as they bounced off his skull. He told himself that no matter what happened, it wouldn’t matter. If he lived - great - but if he didn’t…

Bright certainly was not suicidal, but he was tired; exhausted from fighting his demons on a daily, hourly, minutely basis. He pushed on because he had his team. Gil’s warm hand at the back of his neck, a rare smile from Dani when he made a joke that landed, Edrisa’s adoring expression, JT’s no-nonsense veneer that hid his sweet demeanor. He lived for them. And for his mother and his sister. 

They were all present now, their specter’s standing over the tub as Malcolm’s hand clawed at the immovable arm that held him fast. His short nails only slid over the skin and his strength to push or pull was a slippery failure. 

He imagined...or perhaps hallucinated... all of the people in his life that he loved dearly judging the scene unfolding in the tub. They peered down at him solemnly with their waterlogged expressions and he wondered if that is how they would look at his funeral. He tried to read their expressions or hear their voices, but both were lost in the thick gurgling silence of the water. 

Malcolm’s mouth opened. He felt a strong desire to breathe in and knew that his body would pull the water into his lungs. It was an autonomic reflex, a last ditch effort to secure a shot at life, when in reality, all it would deliver would be death. 

The scene above him swirled and coalesced into a blur of colors. Fragments of Malcolm’s life floated past his mind’s eye as he drew nearer to the end of the line. 

His mother smiling warmly at him over a plate of eggs and pancakes. Ainsley running from him as they played tag as children, her mop of blonde hair whipped by the speed, her face turning to look over her shoulder. The solidity of Gil’s hug and the scent of his cologne mixed with morning coffee. The security of Dani’s hand in his. A solid pat on his back from JT. The way Edrisa had leapt into his arms. Eve’s brilliant grin as she tucked a stray hair behind his ear. And finally...Martin... the warmth and pride in his voice as he said, “my boy,” for what Malcolm knew would be the last time.

Seconds stretched and pulled like thick caramel into minutes, then hours, then days. Whole years could have been passing in that handful of critical moments. 

Eventually, the halo of faces above him evaporated as his overworked mind quieted completely. His legs stilled and his arms fell into the tub with a splash. The lights had gone out. 

Eyes open but unseeing, Malcolm was unaware when the hand that held him down had finally lifted or when strong arms reached into the tub and fished him out. He was limp and wet in his father’s arms, dripping water like rain into gathering rivers onto the tile floor. 

Martin set him down gently and brushed a hand along the side of his boy’s peaceful face before getting to work. He pinched Malcolm’s nose shut and pulled his jaw down so that his mouth would open. Leaning over him, he brought his warm lips to the cold blue ones and began performing CPR. 

Terror, actual terror, skittered along Martin’s ribcage like rats running along a sewer. He had never felt fear like this; it was enormous and gripping and leagues more terrifying than the dying that Malcolm had just experienced. 

He sucked in a deep breath and delivered it to his boy whose chest rose with the desperately needed oxygen. Hands overlapping, arms stiff and locked at the elbows, Martin pumped his son’s chest and tried to get his heart started. 

The doctor performed in a textbook manner, doing everything he could to reach through the murky waters of Styx and feel for his boy so that he could drag his son’s soul back to his body. But the azure lips beneath his were cold and wet and unmoving. “Fuck,” Martin swore before delivering the next breath. His attempts to bring Malcolm back seemed to be failing. 

This was taking too long. Time yawned again and stretched to unimaginable lengths, drawing out endlessly as Martin redoubled his efforts. In that moment, he considered praying but doubted that God would open the door to hear his pleas, even if they were on the behalf of an innocent man. 

Long minutes had passed and he had gone through ten cycles of CPR in four minutes. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity dragged out on the event horizon of a black hole, Malcolm’s head jerked back and water gurgled from his mouth. His eyelids blinked and his pupils resized. Hope roared to life in Martin's chest with a fervor that matched the fever pitch of killing.

“That’s it, that-a-boy,” Martin stopped his compressions and used his fingers to find Malcolm’s jugular artery. 

There was a pulse. 

Finally, Malcolm turned his head and really began coughing up the water that had obstructed his lungs. He threw the liquid up and sucked in shuddering, wheezing gasps of air. His body convulsed as it tried to acclimate to life once more. 

When Bright was done heaving the water up, he continued to cough. The back of his head rolled along the tiled floor until his face stared up in Martin’s direction. 

The lights overhead were blinding, but eventually, Malcolm’s eyes began to focus. First he saw the halo of curls that Martin wore as a crown, and then the rough features of his face that took several blinks to sharpen. 

Malcolm couldn’t tell if it was oxygen deprivation or the jags of coughs that shook his vision, but looks of worry and relief seemed to be battling for dominance on Martin’s features.

“I - no. Did I…” 

“Die?” Martin finished for him. 

Malcolm remained flat on the floor pinned by an invisible force, horror descending like nightfall over his expression as he stared up at his father - at his killer. 

“Y-you let me die?” his voice was a hollow rasp and his throat burned from the water that had violated his windpipe. 

“I brought you back my boy. I let you live.” 

Disbelief splashed over Malcolm and it hit harder and colder than the water in the tub. His mind ran rampant with the implications of what had just happened and his stomach rolled. He propped himself up on his elbows and his body began to shiver from the cold.

“What - what if you couldn’t...bring me back?” he asked weakly. 

“But I did.” 

“What if you couldn’t?” his strained voice sounded panicked and was breaking in all the wrong places. 

“Let’s get you dried off and not play the “what if” game,” Martin brought his large hand to Malcolm’s face and drug his hair off his forehead, pushing it back into place.

Without even asking, Martin moved to hook his arms under Malcolm’s body. Bright wanted to protest, but he became too busy with a coughing spell. Truth be told, he wasn't’ even sure that he would be capable of standing up. His limbs felt hollow and the cold had soaked him to the bone. A continuous tremor rippled through his goosebump flesh and an ache was forming in his head. 

It shocked him - the ease with which Dr. Whitly hoisted him from the slippery tile floor. He picked him up as if he weighed nothing and walked them out of the bathroom. 

It was a relief to be out from underneath the blinding glare of the bathroom lights. Malcolm closed his eyes and rested his tired head against Martin’s shoulder. 

He was grateful that they were home. That Martin had done this here. That he wore a soft navy blue sweater and had his usual cologne clinging to his skin - a scent that Malcolm hadn’t smelled since he was eleven. He relished it now, pulling in deep breaths through his nose before the coughing could catch him.

There were no handcuffs. No tether. No bars. No guards. 

What’s the worst that could happen? 

It already happened. 

Dr. Martin Whitly killed his son. 

Now he held him in his arms, shaking and small, leaving a trail of fallen water in his wake. 

He carefully carried him down the hall and towards the bedroom where he grew up. The room smelled distinctly of Malcolm. The scent of his own cologne, the detergent he favored, the lingering remnants of his favorite candle. 

Martin brought his dripping boy to the bed and laid him down gingerly, ignoring the fact that he would soak through the duvet. 

“I’m going to get towels,” Martin turned and disappeared out of the room. Malcolm shut his eyes and listened to the clack of his shoes against the hardwood. He felt so at peace, knowing that Martin was gone, but just down the hall, poised to return. 

He wasn't gone long. 

Martin reappeared with an armful of fluffy white towels and sat next to Malcolm on the bed, perched on the edge. He set the towels down on the bed next to Malcolm’s legs and pulled him up to sit, maneuvering him like a doll. 

“You did so good Malcolm, I’m proud of you,” he hummed. 

The words, rich and deep, settled in the pit of his abdomen and seemed to feed him. 

Martin’s fingers were going to Malcolm’s shirt. 

Malcolm marveled at his father's hands. Those hands had just stripped him of life and then returned it with forceful compressions to his chest. Those hands had ripped apart some lives and had stolen others. They had also held beating human hearts and performed surgeries so complicated that Dr. Whitly had ended up in prestigious journals (now redacted of course). And here they were, digits skilled as instruments, undoing his clinging clothing one button at a time. 

The white of Malcolm’s shirt was practically see through now, sticking to his flesh like a second skin. He watched with fascination as Martin focused wholly on the task of undressing him. 

He slipped apart every button and then pushed the material off Malcolm’s shoulders. He dragged away the dripping thing and tossed it into a nearby hamper. Then he grabbed a towel and started wiping away the water. 

He had been silent up to this point, but Malcolm could sense that he was formulating his words...that he would say something and he awaited whatever it was with a bizarre anticipation. 

Martin did speak. He began recounting what had just happened. 

“You know...in that tub...I could feel your pulse, quick as a rabbit, begin to slow,” his lips pulled to a smile. “I watched the expression on your face morph...and my fingers felt the very moment that your heart stopped,” he let his grip of the towel go and skimmed his hand up Malcolm’s naked chest, letting it come to a rest at his neck. 

Martin stared at him with something akin to reverence as he pressed his fingers into the greenish bruises that were already forming at Malcolm's pulse points. 

“Death looks beautiful on you,” he says quietly with half lidded eyes.

The words smacked into Malcolm with a near physical force and his body thrilled. He could feel himself hardening in his soaked slacks and before he could even muster any sort of verbal reaction, Martin's gentle on his chest is prodding him to lie down. 

For a moment, Malcolm grows worried because he knows what’s coming next. 

Martin draws the towel away and begins on Malcolm’s belt. He undoes the metal but doesn't’ bother drawing it out of the loops. Instead, he unbuttons and unzips Malcolm’s pants. The outline of Malcolm's cock is apparent and he tries to swallow back his panic.

He considers asking Martin to leave, but that’s not what he wants - that’s the furthest thing from what he wants. No, what he desires is this...Martin's soft eyes illuminated by the lamp on the nightstand, his soothing words that warm Malcolm from the inside out, the electricity of his touch as it peels away Malcolm’s pants and underwear in one slow but swift motion.

Martin is dragging the fabric down Malcolm’s legs and it sticks in protest. He gets down to his mid calf then has to stop to undo Malcolm’s shoes and pop them off. The socks follow. And then Martin can yank the pants the rest of the way off. 

Malcolm blushes furiously, his chest rising as he sucks in a deep breath. His cock is hard but Martin hasn’t let his eyes fall there. 

“You know...bringing you back to life was just as satisfying,” Martin says as he works. “Watching your glassy eyes revive, your pupils narrow with that look so wild and worried. Water spilling past your blue lips as you flopped like a fish out of water, coughing violently and gasping for breath,” Martin runs a hand up Malcolm’s naked leg but pulls it away as he gets close to the sacred space of his inner thigh. He returns to his seat at the edge of the bed next to Malcolm’s bare hip. 

He brings his eyes straight to Malcolm’s gaze even though he must see his boy’s arousal in his peripheral vision. He neither dwells on it or comments on it. He only brushes the still wet hair off Bright’s forehead. 

“My hands may have taken you away, but my lips brought you back.”

Upon hearing this, a particularly potent shiver that has nothing to do with the cold rolls through Bright. Martin only offers a soft smile and his hand returns to his boy’s neck like a magnet compelled. This time, he presses his fingers into the bruises much harder. As pain shouts from the push, something unbidden stirs in Bright. It sweeps him under with undeniable force and threatens to drown him all over again, dragging him into depths far scarier than death. 

Now completely naked, Malcolm's breaths come faster. His lungs sting, still getting used to the air and trying to push out the water. He can't help the coughing and the bed shakes beneath him. It makes his cock bounce and shift. He's overly aware of it as it strains towards him, resting against his belly. 

Why hasn't Martin addressed it?

Dr. Whitly reaches over him and gets the towel again. He starts drying off his legs, going slow. First his feet and ankles. Then his calves, the direction clearly headed upward and the anticipation is killing Malcolm who wonders what he'll do when he reaches his cock. 

Once his thighs are dry, martin wipes off Malcolm's hips and belly and Malcolm's hope falls. 

He doesn't realize that this disappointment shows on his face and how intently Martin is studying him. 

Martin takes the towel and finally brings it to Malcolm's crotch. He rolls his balls in the soft fabric and listens to the groan that floats past Malcolm's now-rosy lips. Then he dries off his cock and gives it a good squeeze. Divested of words and logic, Malcolm relishes the contact and groans. 

"Is this what you want Malcolm?" Martin asks, his voice low and dangerous. "You've had a lot of excitement today already, I'm not sure you're ready for more," he removes the towel and tosses it into the hamper. 

"I think that what you really need is to warm up...and the best way to do that is with some body heat," Martin stands and looks down at his bewildered boy. He begins to slowly take off his own clothes which are also soaking wet. Malcolm watches in numb fascination. 

"Scoot over." 

Malcolm swallows thickly and obeys. He lifts his body and shifts it over as a shirtless Martin helps by pulling the covers down. Bright climbs inside and waits. 

He can't take the sight before him. 

Martin's chest is broad and fuzzed, the round of his belly oddly sensual, and as he begins pulling off his pants and underwear, his half hard cock bobs up to point at Malcolm. 

Under the covers, Bright is pressing his thighs together and suppressing a moan. He's not entirely sure how he got here or if it's even real. Was he really alive right now or had he died in that tub? Before he can dwell on the question, Martin reaches over and snaps off the lamp. The warm orange glow is gone, but the room is still lit by moonlight and a nightlight.

Naked, Martin pulls the blankets back and climbs into bed with Malcolm. Luckily, the water on the duvet's surface failed to soak through the bedsheets. It wouldn't matter even if it had though, the bed was large enough and Martin scooted towards Malcolm who backed up. They ended up on the other side of the bed and Martin could sense his boy's timidity. He knew that Malcolm was wading into uncharted waters and that he was scared. 

Martin wasn't scared though. No. He had already faced and conquered his fear. 

Come here my boy," he soothed, thrilled when his boy brought his naked body towards his. He pressed them flush together, wrapping his strong arms around Malcolm's lithe body and planted a kiss at his cold forehead. Within the cage of his arms, Malcolm shivered. Martin moved his thigh under the covers and felt the heat of Malcolm's desperate arousal. 

"Well this is quite a turn of events, isn't it?" he whispered in the near dark. "I never expected you to have...predilections like this...," Martin purred. "Tell me why you're hard my boy..."

"I will, but first..." Malcolm swallowed and gathered up his nerve before continuing, "can you tell me...what was it like to kill me?" 


End file.
